Gift Exchange
by chappysmom
Summary: "Let me get this straight, John. You want me to have dinner with my brother," Sherlock said. "Voluntarily." "Yes, as your present to me. Come have a polite dinner with Mycroft, and you won't have to buy me anything. Just … do this for me?" Later, John would cringe remembering the note of pleading in his voice.


**Note**: This story comes from a suggestion by EASchechter over at AO3. I was looking for gift ideas for Mycroft for my "Secret Santa" story and she suggested this. "_Supposing that John gives Mycroft a drama-free Holmes Christmas dinner, by asking Sherlock to behave as HIS Christmas present?"_ It didn't fit into that story, but it was too delicious an idea to pass up … in fact, we BOTH wrote stories off this prompt! So here's mine. Hope you enjoy it.

(As usual, I own nothing here but my own plot, the rest belongs to ACD and Doyle. Not beta'd or Brit-picked, so all errors are my own.)

* * *

He blamed himself, later, for not seeing it coming, for being too innocent … for not being as suspicious as he should have been. But he'd been desperate.

The holidays were always hard for John. Most people had troubles with loneliness or depression. They had to deal with screaming children and arguing families. Too much stress at work. (Though John always wanted to laugh at the people who complained about that. If they needed to see stress, they needed to try living with Sherlock.)

No, John's problem with the holidays stemmed from the gifts. That wasn't to say he didn't like giving gifts. He did. He even started thinking about them months in advance, trying to choose just the right thing for his friends and family. His mother had raised him on the idea that one, great gift was always better than a pile of piddly nonsense gifts just meant to fill a stocking. She was a big one for repeating 'it's the thought that counts, Johnny,' and it was a lesson he'd taken to heart.

No matter what Sherlock might think, John really was good at observing—at least, good for a normal person—and so he had always had a knack for selecting the right book, or a perfect movie. He almost had an instinct for picking the one thing his friends would really appreciate. It didn't have to be expensive, or elaborate. (It was hard, for example, to beat a good bottle of scotch for the long-suffering Lestrade.) The point was to put thought into it.

But Mycroft Holmes … he was a stumper. Even ultra-particular, picky Sherlock was easy compared to Mycroft. His flatmate's brother could (1) afford pretty much anything he wanted; (2) had no hobbies to speak of—to John's knowledge; (3) had no free time even if he'd wanted a hobby; and (4) had been helpful in saving John and Sherlock's lives on at least three occasions and had never even gotten a thank you from his brother.

Really, at the very least, the man deserved a gift at Christmas.

John wracked his brain, though, and … nothing. No ideas. Not even if he'd had an unlimited budget. What, was he going to be reduced to buying the man a tie? Like he'd ever wear it—the ties Mycroft wore probably cost more than John's entire budget. It was hopeless.

So, finally, he asked Sherlock. Maybe their mutual childhood would have left some knowledge of a past interest that John could capitalize on.

But, no. Apparently Mycroft had been born directly into a three-piece suit and had had an umbrella as a teething toy. All of Sherlock's ideas had been of the diet/gym membership-variety. Hurtful, teasing gifts rather than sincere ones.

John finally flung up his hands (figuratively, as he was actually drinking tea at the time). "Really," he said, "The best gift I can think of for him would be time with you that didn't involve sniping and insults. When's the last time the two of you had a real conversation?"

"1985, I think," Sherlock said. "Just before he left me to go to Uni."

John just stared. "You haven't talked to your brother since you were … what … nine?"

"Don't be silly, John. I talk to him. You've heard me."

"No, you talk _at_ him, and constantly snipe at him. No wonder he spies on us all the time—it's the only way he can feel like he's part of your life. It's a shame I can't…"

"Can't what?"

"Give him _you_ for a present."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "Slavery was outlawed quite some time ago, John."

"I don't mean … no, I just." John floundered. "Dinner. A civil meal with conversation and no insults. I bet there's nothing he'd like more. Pity it's not possible."

"No?" Sherlock's voice could not have been more aristocratic.

John just shook his head. The more he thought about it, the more perfect the crazy, impossible idea had been. But how could he get Sherlock on board? He'd come up with the perfect gift—he knew it—and the idea just wouldn't let him go. "It could be my present," he blurted out.

"What?"

"Your present to me. Come have a polite dinner with Mycroft, and you won't have to buy me anything. No gift wrapping. No cellotape. And I'll still owe you a gift … just … do this for me?"

Later, he would cringe remembering the note of pleading in his voice.

"Let me get this straight, John. You want me to have dinner with my _brother_," Sherlock said. "_Voluntarily._"

John swallowed at the disdain practically dripping from Sherlock's tongue, but he forged ahead and nodded, "And to behave yourself."

"And behave myself," Sherlock echoed. "In return, my behavior will count as your Christmas gift from me, freeing me from the responsibility of buying you a new jumper or DVDs to watch, or any other kind of nonsense."

"Right," said John. "You give me one evening of good behavior with your brother, so that I don't have to buy _him_ a new jumper or DVDs or a Third World country that I can't afford."

Sherlock gave the smallest of smiles. "I'll do it."

John couldn't help the look of surprise he knew was on his face. "Really?"

"Yes. One night of good, brotherly behavior. I promise."

"Right, well … that's excellent. Thank you, Sherlock," John said, relieved. He almost couldn't wait to tell Mycroft.

Though … why was that look of satisfaction just now on Sherlock's face worrying him?

#

John called Mycroft the next day.

"Mycroft? It's John."

The voice at the other end sounded tired. "_Oh dear. What's he done now?_"

"No, no. Nothing like that. I just wanted to invite you to dinner for Christmas."

He could practically hear the Holmesian eyebrow lifting across the line. "_That's nice of you, John, but I'm afraid I have other things on my schedule than suffering Sherlock's insults all evening, holiday or no._"

John gave a chuckle. "I don't blame you for that, but see … he's actually agreed to behave."

"_Sherlock? Behave? I'm afraid that really would require a Christmas miracle, John_."

"Normally, yes, but he promised."

"_He promised,_" Mycroft's voice was flat and disbelieving.

"Yes," John reassured him hastily.

The silence through the phone was deafening and for a minute, John was sure he'd flubbed this somehow. Mycroft was a Holmes and one used to dealing with top-flight professional diplomats. There was no way he wouldn't see right through John's transparent attempt to make him feel that Sherlock was doing this for Mycroft in any way. (Frankly, he still couldn't believe Sherlock was doing it for _him_.)

"_I see_," came Mycroft's voice after an endless pause. And by his tone, it sounded as if he really had understood—probably more than John had intended, in fact. "_Very well, I would be delighted. Where shall I meet you?_"

"Here at the flat," John told him, trying not to sound as relieved as he felt. "Not that I'll be subjecting you to my cooking—that wouldn't promote holiday cheer for any of us. I was going to order from Angelo's. His food is really excellent, you know, and…"

"_Nonsense, John_," Mycroft's voice cut across John's babble. "_You're doing enough just bringing Sherlock to the table. Why don't you and he come here? I have an excellent cook who seldom has enough to do as it is._"

"But…"

"_Excellent. I'll see you both at 6:00?_"

"Um, that's not really what I …"

But Mycroft had already disconnected. John just stared at the phone a moment and then turned to see Sherlock smirking at him. (When had he come in the room?) "You see, John? You think it's your decision, your choices, and then he just takes over. This is going to be _so_ much fun, don't you think?"

John found himself wishing he'd just gotten Mycroft a tacky Polyester tie and been done with it.

#

As Christmas day drew nearer, John found himself getting nervous. Why was Sherlock looking so cheerful about this? He kept remembering the night he'd met Mycroft. "_You can imagine the Christmas dinners_."

Well, he was starting to. Was it wrong to hope for a serial killer to strike on Christmas Day? Some kind of crime wave that would keep them from having to go?

He shook himself. Don't be silly, John. It was one dinner, a couple hours, and Sherlock had promised to behave. How bad could it be?

He shuddered. If his life were a TV show, there would be ominous music playing with him thinking things like that. (The only thing worse would be if he'd actually said, "Things can't get worse." Everybody who'd ever seen a movie knew better than that.) But this was real life. They might not like each other, but Sherlock and Mycroft were brothers. There had to be some kind of affection there somewhere … didn't there?

#

"John, Sherlock. It's so good of you to come."

John was busy trying not to ogle too obviously at the entrance hall. Did any one man really _need_ that much marble? He had never been to Mycroft's home before and was trying not to be intimidated. He was here for Christmas dinner, after all. He was a guest. There was no reason to feel like a poor relation or a beggar looking for alms, or whatever poor people did when they came to posh homes.

He found himself wishing he'd insisted on Baker Street, though. This had been his idea, after all. His gift, even, and already he felt uncomfortable.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was politely handing off his coat. "Why, thank you, Mycroft. It's so good of you to have us. I can barely remember the last time we had Christmas dinner together."

"Not since Father died," Mycroft said, gesturing them in to the sitting room. Drawing room? Library? John wasn't sure of anything but that it was large and plush and full of books. Not that that surprised him. It seemed entirely right that both Mycroft and Sherlock should be surrounded by books.

"Ah, yes, all those fond memories," Sherlock was saying in a too-polite voice. "Father glaring across the Christmas goose, chastising me for experimenting on the cat while you polished your halo. Those were the days."

"Sherlock," John said with a warning note to his voice. He was not going to let this descend into the usual bickering. He hadn't come here for an evening of indigestion, after all, and Sherlock had promised.

"What? Oh, of course. Apologies. It's just that it's hard to find any fond memories of Father."

John watched the brothers make quick eye contact and realized that this was not an area he was interested in exploring. "Right, so we won't talk about him, then."

"Oh? I thought it was tradition to reminisce about absent family members at times like these?"

"Then we'll start our own tradition, Sherlock," John said. Turning to Mycroft he asked about work.

Mycroft gave his small, politician's smile. "Busy, though I'm afraid I can't go into detail. You might want to stock up on some coffee beans, though. I fear the price might be rising soon." Amused, John thanked him for the advice and, for a time the three of them managed to stumble through small talk without any fights or insults.

For a moment, John thought this might actually work.

Then the doorbell rang.

"Ah, that will be Mummy," Mycroft said.

#

John could have sworn the temperature dropped. As in, suddenly everything was frozen solid. Nobody moved and John almost expected to see Sherlock's words freeze in the air as he asked, "Mummy?"

"Well, yes. She was so excited to hear that we would actually be seeing each other for Christmas, I couldn't keep her away—especially after she expressed an interest in meeting John."

John was suddenly sympathizing with countless cartoon characters with those comical expressions upon being hit in the head with shovels. He felt like he had been. The only advantage was the lack of concussion … but then, this was so unbelievable, maybe he was hallucinating. "I thought your mother was dead," he blurted out.

He was answered by a voice at the door. "Do neither of my sons talk about me, Dr. Watson? How very shocking."

They all rose to their feet and faced the woman standing tall in elegant furs. John hadn't known what to expect (since she apparently was not in a mausoleum somewhere), but … this would not have been it. Sherlock's mother was tall, like both her sons, but the resemblance stopped there. Her eyes might have been faded versions of Sherlock's, but they were warm where his were analytical. She had her son's sharp cheekbones, but they were softened by a gentle smile. Physically, it was possible to see where Sherlock got his looks, but in all other ways she seemed … maternal. Friendly. Approachable.

Not at all like her sons.

Mycroft had moved forward to give his mother a kiss on the cheek, making polite noises about taking her wrap, getting a drink, but Sherlock had not moved other than rising to his feet.

Looking at him, John thought that no, it was _Sherlock_ that looked he'd just been hit by a shovel … and was hoping to dig a hole to disappear with it.

This was a disaster, and they hadn't even had appetizers yet.

"No greeting for your mother, Sherlock?" She had stepped forward now, smiling up at him with a blend of affection and wariness … a look John knew well.

"Of course, forgive me," Sherlock choked out. "Good evening, Mu … Mother."

"There, now was that so hard? Won't you introduce me to your friend?"

"Yes, Mother, may I introduce Dr. John Watson, formerly RAMC captain. John, this is my mother, Miriam Holmes."

John shook her hand, feeling almost awed at meeting the woman who had raised these two extraordinary (if infuriating) men. "How do you do? It is a pleasure to meet you."

"No, indeed, the pleasure is mine, Dr. Watson. You have no idea how long I've wanted to meet you."

"Really?" John couldn't keep the surprise from his voice.

"Naturally. You're the first true friend Sherlock has ever had. I've been wanting to meet you for over thirty years."

John gave an uncomfortable huff of a laugh. Had she just made a joke? "I was a bit busy in primary school then, not very good company, I'm afraid. You can ask my sister if you don't believe me."

She leaned forward and touched his arm. "Ah, you have a sister. Do you and she get along better than Mycroft and Sherlock, I hope?"

"Not really, I'm afraid," he told her. "We don't have much in common."

"Not to mention that Harriet is an alcoholic who can't even be bothered to call her brother on Christmas," Sherlock said with a sniff, then asked, "What?" as he realized the other three were all staring at him. "I am actually _dining_ with my brother. I had no need to call."

"Not this year, no," Mycroft said. He looked like he was going to say more, but he intercepted a look from his mother and subsided—much the way Sherlock had when he caught the glare John was sending his way.

John accidentally met Mrs. Holmes' eyes and they shared a moment of amusement. It was the first time he'd had someone to help keep the peace between Mycroft and Sherlock, and she had had years of experience. Really, he should be taking notes.

#

The almost-comfortable small talk had either crept away or had withered and died during the greetings, and once they were all seated, silence fell again. It was just slightly warmer than before as Mrs. Holmes ("_Call me Miriam, dear_.") beamed at the three of them, obviously delighted to see her sons together—however silent.

It was a relief when Mycroft announced that dinner was ready. John honestly didn't know what he was going to do. There had been a chance that Sherlock would live up to his promise when it was just Mycroft, but now?

He had no idea what the history was with their mother, but there was a vibe in this room that John could not identify. Once seated at the table (having skirted around the suits of _horse armor_ in the corners), Mycroft was doing his civil best at making conversation. But then, of course he was. He was a diplomat (or something) by profession. He could probably make small talk during a fire fight if he had to … it was just with Sherlock that he didn't bother.

But Sherlock? John couldn't identify the mood that had engulfed his friend, but it worried him. He didn't look particularly stressed, he wasn't acting offended by Mycroft daring to breathe the same air. He had politely answered his mother's questions about his work, even if not as thoroughly as he might. (But then, did his mother really need to know how closely that last murderer had come to shooting her son?) He was even eating.

On the surface, Sherlock was living up to the letter of his agreement. He was, in fact, behaving.

It was that … something … going on under the surface that worried John. He had never had any doubts that Sherlock had been raised with manners, even if he normally chose to ignore them. The fact that he could, when he chose, behave with grace and civility at an awkward dinner was not entirely a surprise. When he chose to be, Sherlock was an incredible actor. Of course he could play the part of a dutiful son.

And John had certainly noticed the sidelong glances making sure that he noticed that Sherlock knew he had noticed. He had no doubt that he was going to pay very dearly for this meal when they got back to Baker Street.

#

The soup course passed without event, as did the fish. (John had to concede that Mycroft's cook was indeed very talented. If it hadn't been for the knots in his stomach, he would have enjoyed this meal immensely.) By the main course, Sherlock had lapsed mostly into silence—albeit with a polite smile on his face. Mycroft had actually loosened up enough to have two glasses of wine, and John and Mrs. … Miriam … were getting along famously.

He had no idea what their father had been like, but John found that he liked Miriam immensely. She wasn't quite as blazingly intelligent as her sons, but she had a knack for observation as well as a knowledge of how people actually worked that made her anecdotes both fascinating and amusing.

Naturally, where anecdotes came into play, John had an endless store. Between his time in the army, his practice of medicine, and the crime-fighting thing with Sherlock, John had seen, well … everything. He had stories about his stories and even disregarding the more horrific and violent ones, even censoring the more explicit tales not fit for mixed company, he could go on for hours.

In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had had so much fun—or done so much talking. It had been one of the first things he'd learned about both Holmes brothers: let them do the talking because they'll jump on any tiny opening you leave them.

By dessert, John and Miriam were joking like old friends while the other two had both sunk back into what John would have called sulking, had the British Government not been one of the parties. Meanwhile, he had amassed a store of truly valuable stories about their childhood.

Really, he could only hope that Mycroft wasn't going to have him assassinated later that night for having learned how he carried around a Paddington Bear until he was eight. He had only given it up because Sherlock had absconded with it, and had then cried all night when Sherlock promptly dismembered it.

All in all, though, the night had been going remarkably well.

Right up until Mrs. Holmes excused herself.

She was barely out of the door when Sherlock and Mycroft both rounded on John. "What do you think you're doing?"

"What?" John couldn't help stepping backwards under the force of the matching glares.

Mycroft's voice was icy as he said, "You couldn't possibly think we would take kindly to your flirting with Mummy?

"Flirting…?"

"I mean, really, it's highly inappropriate, John, don't you think?" Sherlock added, his voice sharp. "You are my flatmate, after all, and I am well aware of your difficulties keeping a girlfriend for longer than a month. You can't possibly think I'd allow you to get involved with Mummy?"

"But, I'm not…"

"If it's her money, John, you can be assured that it is neatly tied up. You would have no access to it." Mycroft looked altogether too smug as he said that, John thought, as his brain started to sluggishly function again.

"And if you hurt her, you _do_ know that I will hurt you," Sherlock said, looming forward menacingly.

"I … just wait a minute!" John had heard enough. "I am not _flirting_ with your mother! Somebody had to keep the dinner conversation going while the two of you sulked in your corners. What happened to a civil dinner?"

"I believe that you're the one misbehaving at the moment, John," Mycroft said, his voice silky.

"Yes, neither of us have raised our voices, nor have we thrown things or even insulted each other," agreed Sherlock.

And the scary part was that that was true, thought John. The two brothers were actually working on concert for a change, united in purpose … just, unfortunately, the purpose seemed to be intimidating _him_.

Being assassinated on the way home was looking all too possible.

#

He was just opening his mouth when the door opened and Miriam came back in, gracefully accepting the coffee Mycroft poured for her. John retreated to a chair in the corner, trying to figure out how two such intelligent men had misread friendly dinner conversation so thoroughly. Even when they didn't understand normal people, the two of them were still better at reading body language than anyone John had ever met.

They could be messing with him, but the possibility of the two of them working together for a practical joke seemed highly unlikely. Maybe they were just blind where their mother was concerned?

But, you know what? Fine. It wasn't like either of them was particularly emotionally stable at the best of times. Let them spend some time with their mother. John would just sit quietly over here where he could not be accused of flirting and enjoy this really excellent coffee.

Hmph, he thought. _Flirting_.

He watched them for a time as Mycroft doted on Miriam and Sherlock just sat nearby, an enigmatic smile on his face. What the hell was going on with Sherlock tonight? His mood had been … off … all evening.

John was watching as their mother asked a question and saw Sherlock shoot a quick, amused glance his way … which is when he realized. Sherlock had never thought he was flirting, but Mycroft _had_.

It made sense, in a weird, twisted, Holmesian way—especially considering that the man still called her 'Mummy.' Mycroft was eager to please his mother, was acting protective of her—probably why he barely let Sherlock get in a word. But if he wasn't going to let her interact with Sherlock, why had he invited her?

Of course. To show off. It's why he'd insisted on dinner at his house. Why he had kept John from even once mentioning this had been his idea—his Christmas present! (Really, what had he been thinking? Even one of Harry's Christmas jumpers would have been better than this.)

Except, now he knew that, against all reasonable expectation, Mycroft Holmes was a Mama's Boy—and a jealous one at that. Talk about a priceless piece of information.

John watched more closely now, over the gold rim of his cup. It would explain so much, really, of the sibling rivalry between Sherlock and his brother. The real question now was—why was Sherlock going along with this?

If Sherlock knew that John had not been flirting with his mother (flirting with his _mother_ for God's sake!), why was he humoring Mycroft? It wasn't like him to be so obliging.

Oh.

Of course.

Sherlock had promised to behave tonight. But he also loved making trouble—especially for Mycroft—so the opportunity to let Mycroft fall right into a trap his own jealousy was making … of course Sherlock was letting it happen. All he had to do was sit back and watch Mycroft tie himself in knots because Mummy was spending more time chatting with John than being impressed with the Korean elections, or whatever Mycroft was working on this week. In fact, Sherlock's polite behavior would suit him perfectly because there would be nothing to distract Mycroft from the scenario playing out in his own head—and when it all imploded, Sherlock would look perfectly innocent, having behaved so obviously well all evening, as agreed.

It was diabolical, John thought, and so very Sherlock.

He could see Miriam's eyes turning toward him again. She must be wondering what had happened to make him so quiet after their friendly chatting during dinner. (Chatting which had very much not been the same as chatting _up_, thank you very much.) He could see Mycroft saying something soothing, presumably to keep his mother from coming over to John's end of the room.

Now that he could see what was going on, John was almost amused—though still a little worried about assassins if Mycroft didn't stand down soon.

Just then, Sherlock looked over and caught his eye, taking in John's thoughtful expression. John nodded at Mycroft with a raised eyebrow and did his best not to smile outright. He deserved to get in on some of this fun, didn't he? This evening was supposed to be his present, too, after all. Why should Sherlock have all the fun?

Sherlock clearly read all of this on his face and for just one moment, a look of unholy glee crossed his face. Then he turned back to his mother and said, "Wasn't it good of John to arrange this tonight, Mother?"

#

Miriam gave a startled look at John. "Really? I thought this was your idea, Mycroft?"

Mycroft's lips tightened. "John did mention it, it's true, but…"

"Why, John, thank you." Miriam leaned forward to smile down the room at John. "I can't remember the last time I saw my sons on Christmas."

"John didn't invite you, though, Mummy. That was my idea," Mycroft put in.

"It's true," said Sherlock. "John kept pestering me for your phone number, but I got so busy with other things, I forgot to give it to him. Luckily, yes, Mycroft was able to make the call."

"Of course I called," Mycroft all but hissed at his brother. "We certainly couldn't have depended on you. And this was _my_ invitation. This is my home."

"Well, of course it is, Mycroft. Though we were fortunate that Angelo didn't charge us a cancellation fee for the catering John had planned at the flat, but of course, it helps that he owes me a favor. When I explained that my brother insisted we come to his house and that it would be a shame to waste his wonderful food, he was quite understanding. Luckily, he's Italian and puts quite a store on family."

John could barely contain his glee at watching Mycroft all but sputter as Sherlock politely corrected him. Miriam was watching them with a resigned look in her eye—one John was starting to recognize from his own face in the mirror after spending time with Mycroft and Sherlock. Yet, there was a gleam of amusement, too, as she watched her older son quickly devolving into a six-foot toddler on the verge of a tantrum.

"What do you know about family, Sherlock? You've spent your entire life running from yours." Mycroft's voice was bitter, and quickly losing its polite tone. "You wouldn't even be here tonight if…" He stopped abruptly.

Sherlock just lifted an elegant eyebrow. "Yes, Mycroft? If what? You were going to say 'if John hadn't made me,' weren't you? Except you didn't want _Mummy_ to know of John's involvement, did you? You wanted all the credit for yourself, the favored elder son."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. I am no longer ten years old."

"And yet you're acting like it." Miriam's voice was smooth, not raised or angry at all, but it evoked instant silence from her sons. "I am well aware, Mycroft, that Sherlock would not have invited me, and poor John—who the two of you seem to be fighting over, for some reason, poor dear—didn't know of my existence." She gave John a smile. "I saw your face when I walked in, you see. Don't worry. I know it's not your fault Sherlock never bothered to tell you I was alive."

John was amused to see Sherlock flinch slightly as his mother's voice sharpened on the word, but she had turned back to Mycroft by then. "So whose was it, Mycroft? Your idea? Or John's?" And now she had that tone used by mothers everywhere, the one that said, "_Don't mess with me, young man_."

Mycroft heaved a sigh and for a moment looked for all the world like he was going to scuff the toe of his expensive Italian leather shoe on the carpet. "The original idea was John's, Mummy."

"And it is he who convinced Sherlock to come?"

Mycroft's head actually dropped lower. "Yes, Mummy."

Sherlock nodded and said brightly, helpfully, "Yes, it was his Christmas present, wasn't that good of him, to make sure we had a family dinner as_his_ present? When we're not even his family?"

Miriam blinked and even Mycroft looked surprised. "Your present, John? That seems odd. Most people I know would consider it a gift _not_ to come."

John was all but laughing inside now, but managed to keep it down to just a smile on his face as he said, "It's Mycroft's fault, really, for being so hard to buy for. I couldn't come up with a gift for him that I thought he would like other than a nice dinner with Sherlock—some time spent without squabbling, you know. So I told Sherlock that him coming and behaving could be his present to me."

Miriam's face softened, melting with motherly sentiment. "I … I don't know what to say. That's one of the most generous …"

"Oh, please," John waved it off. "This gave me a chance to meet you, and that's pleasure enough."

Sherlock's eyes fairly gleamed with malice as he said, "Now, John, careful. Mycroft will think you're trying to flirt, or something equally ridiculous."

"Now, Sherlock, that really would be ridiculous," John said agreeably, watching Mycroft squirm. "A man of Mycroft's powers of observation would certainly know the difference between flirting and merely being friendly."

"And charming," Sherlock added. "You do have a knack for charming, John."

"Kind of you to say so, Sherlock. You're going to make me blush."

But both of them were watching Miriam as she stared at Mycroft, obviously replaying the change in the room's dynamics since she'd returned for coffee. "Mycroft, what did you do?"

"I, I didn't do anything, Mummy."

"He was just looking out for you, _Mummy_," Sherlock said, his face open and innocent.

"Mycroft Winston Holmes, how could you possibly …? Believe me, young man, I know when I'm being flirted with, and am well able to handle myself. I don't need you frightening off perfectly good dinner companions—especially one who has managed to survive Sherlock for … how long is it now?"

"Four years, more or less," said John thoughtfully. "I mean, there was that time Sherlock spent … away, but …"

"Long enough, John, dear, for Mycroft to know better." She turned to give Mycroft a stern look. "Besides, John's not really my type—no offense, John."

"None taken," he told her, even more amused now. Really, this was shaping up to be one of the most entertaining Christmases he'd had in years.

He just wished he could be more certain that Mycroft was going to let this go … without sending out a team of snipers.

#

"That was surprisingly enjoyable," Sherlock said later, as they sat in their chairs in Baker Street, enjoying the warm fire and a glass of eggnog.

"It was," John said, nodding. "Are you as surprised as I am?"

Sherlock gave a short laugh. "Indeed. I expected the night to be deadly dull, and when Mycroft invited Mother…."

"I almost fell over, I didn't even know she was alive, Sherlock. You could have warned me."

"I didn't know she would be there, John," Sherlock said, "Though I suppose I should have suspected. Mycroft has always gone out of his way to get in her good books."

"No wonder he insisted the meal be at his place—I thought it was just a power play of some sort."

Sherlock sipped his eggnog and made a face. "Oh, it was, just in a game that he and I have been playing for decades now. Your 'present' just gave him the opportunity. This stuff is disgusting."

"You don't have to drink it, Sherlock. You could add more brandy to it, if you want. Or I could make some tea?" At Sherlock's nod, he heaved himself out of the chair and headed for the kitchen. "That'll teach me to try to do something nice for Mycroft."

"I don't think he'd had any idea that's what you were doing, you know. He looked almost ashamed when you told Mummy that our dinner was your Christmas present."

"He did," John agreed. "And then he went right back to looking like I knew too much to be allowed to live. Being kidnapped to an empty warehouse by a stranger controlling the CCTV cameras wasn't as scary as sitting there watching your brother being reduced to the emotional level of a five-year old and knowing he'd make me pay for it later. I'm frankly terrified."

"As you should be … except for the fact that Mummy liked you."

"And told him that he had to be nice to me to make up for … how on _earth_ did he come to the conclusion that I was flirting with your mother? I mean, really, Sherlock!"

Sherlock's voice was laced with laughter as he called back, "I know, wasn't it delicious? And the look on your face! If I hadn't promised to be on my best behavior, I would have burst out laughing."

John went back to the sitting room, carrying two mugs of tea. "Well, I have to admit, you lived up to your end of the deal. You _did_ behave all night. I never thought you'd manage it."

Sherlock sat up straight. "Does that mean you didn't get me a present?" he asked indignantly. "Because I earned that present!"

"You'll find out in the morning, Sherlock," John told him. "Santa doesn't come until after all the good little boys are in bed, remember?"

"I don't want a gift from an imaginary elf, John. I am owed one by _you_."

"In the morning," John told him with a laugh. "Christmas presents are for Christmas morning."

"It's after midnight."

"You're acting like a child," John said, and then tilted his head, watching. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. You owe me a present, and I demand you pay up."

Shaking his head—really, both Holmes brothers had the emotional maturity of a seven year old—John sighed and heaved himself back to his feet. He went up to his room and dug out Sherlock's gift from underneath his jumpers.

He headed back down the stairs saying, "It's not much, really, but…" He stopped short as he reached the sitting room, staring at the present sitting on his chair. "But … we agreed …"

"…That my behaving at dinner would be my gift to you, but really, that hardly seemed fair, especially since I knew Mycroft was going to pull something. He always does, you know. He seems like the sane one—he always has—but that's just because he doesn't mind acting like a normal person. Where I am concerned, though, he's always trying to get the upper hand. There was no way tonight was going to go smoothly, and I did want you to have a present you would enjoy, so…"

John entered the room almost numbly. "I'm speechless, Sherlock, really."

"Well, go on then," Sherlock told him. "Open it."

"No, no. A deal's a deal. You first." John handed him the package, and watched as Sherlock observed and deduced whatever he could from the wrapping. (First and foremost no doubt was the fact that John's gift-wrapping skills needed some work.) He could tell, though, that Sherlock was completely surprised when he opened the box, pulling out the warm new scarf.

"A handknit, John?" Sherlock asked as he ran his fingers along the soft length, tracing the twining cables. "That's good of … wait. You made this yourself?"

John just smiled at him. "What? Did you find a mistake?"

"No, just … I didn't know you could do this."

"Mum taught me and Harry when we were kids, but it's been a while. I noticed your favorite was looking a bit ragged, though, and thought it was time you had a new one."

Sherlock was stroking it now. "I don't know what to say. Nobody's ever made me a gift before."

"Just be glad you're not from my family, then. I've gotten more ugly Christmas jumpers from Harry than I like to think about."

Sherlock smiled as he lifted the scarf around his neck. "That cabled jumper of yours isn't bad, though."

"Well, ta for that. I made that one myself." At Sherlock's look of surprise, John expanded, "After I was shot. Harry sent me the wool and, well, it gave me something to do to pass the time—not to mention being excellent therapy for my shoulder. Anyway, I'm glad you like it."

"I do," Sherlock said. "Very much. Now yours."

John looked down at his expertly wrapped box and tried to imagine what Sherlock would have gotten him. He was touched that he'd gotten him anything at all. He hadn't their first Christmas together, and their second had been swallowed by the drama surrounding The Woman. Then, Sherlock's first Christmas back from … away … just having him home and alive had been gift enough. This was the first year Sherlock had given him a gift, and he had no idea what to expect.

Sherlock stirred impatiently in his chair and John flashed him a quick grin before tearing off the paper to reveal … "Really?" He looked across at his friend.

"It is about time you had a new one. Yours is practically a dinosaur at this point."

John nodded absently as he opened the box to take out the new phone. "I don't know what to say, Sherlock. This is way too much…."

"Nonsense," Sherlock told him. "It's a business necessity. I can't have my blogger falling behind the times, can I?"

John's forehead creased. "No, but…" He flipped the phone over in his hands, feeling the unfamiliar size and weight of it and then stopped. "Sherlock…"

"I know," Sherlock waved his hand airily. "Sentiment, but it seemed the thing to do since you're used to having one—at least this time it's meant for you."

John just stared down at the phone, blinking at the words engraved on the back.

"_This phone belongs to John Watson, Blogger and Friend of Sherlock Holmes_."

He looked up at his friend and just let his face show how pleased and touched he was and then simply said, "Thank you," and that was enough.

Really, this might just have been the best Christmas ever.

The apology and new laptop from Mycroft that arrived the following morning by special courier didn't hurt, either.

##


End file.
